by David Daniel
“Does she get along with your husband?”
“With Ross?” She looked surprised. “Just fine.”
“And with you?”
“Like any sixteen-year-old girl and her mother, I guess. Why?”
“Has Ross been married before?”
“No. Mr. Rasmussen, I’m not sure what—”
“Mrs. Jensen, I’m willing to look into this for you, but the more you can tell me, the better chance I’ll have. I need something to go on.”
“Like what?”
“Information. Like, there are a lot of toys—upstairs and in the garage—but Michelle’s pile definitely seems smaller. And no recent photo?”
“We did have a family shot taken.” Her brow creased with uncertainty. “It may be in Ross’s office.”
Seeing that she wasn’t going to run with the ball, I trudged on. “Sometimes … a busy man, with his own child and a stepchild—”
I broke off as her chin tightened and, unexpectedly, her eyes filled. When she’d blinked back the tears, she managed a blurry smile. “Actually, that was Ross who called before. He’s been working day and night on a big case, and the client had Red Sox tickets, so they were going to go. I was hoping he’d get here so you two could meet. He knows more about this sort of thing.” “About missing children?”
“About investigations. He’s an attorney.”
“Does he know you called me?”
She shook her head. “I did it on my own.”
“What’s his take on this?”
“He agrees with the police, thinks it could be just Ben being irresponsible. He’d definitely say that getting outside help was premature.”
“Could it be?”
She drew a breath and sighed. “Ben hasn’t always been the most reliable person. Can I … can I think about this for a little bit, Mr. Rasmussen? I’ll pay you for your time.”
“No need. Call it a free consultation. And call me Alex.”
She smiled gratefully. She glanced at the food. “This won’t keep. Have you eaten yet? You haven’t. Stay,” she said, then added apologetically, “It’s nothing fancy.”
It was when your idea of gourmet food was a hot dog at the lunch counter at Wal-Mart. We sat at the wrought-iron table overlooking the pool and the woods beyond the stockade fence. There were lettuce and tomatoes and a cold potato salad, which she served with the chicken on plates painted like slices of watermelon. She poured lemonade. I asked her to describe her daughter. I learned that Michelle’s hair was dyed black now, worn short, and that she had a pierced eyebrow, which sometimes sported a silver ring.
The food was good, and I ate a second helping. Between chews I asked about her husband. She told me the name of his firm, which I recognized as a top-flight outfit known for corporate and civil law. “He works hard. Too hard, maybe, but try to tell him that.” She mustered a grin. “He’ll make partner. We’ve been married nine years and have Katie. She’s bright, and Ross loves her, but he’s …” She sighed. “So busy. His way of showing his love is to buy her things. With Shel … it’s been tough on both sides, right from the start. They’ve kept a distance. Shel spends a lot of time in her own head.”
“Listening to Satan Bugg?”
“Awful, isn’t it? It’s so angry-sounding. But it’s probably no worse than what we listened to.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” I said.
“No, you’re right.”
We talked some more. As I got ready to go, she grew anxious again. “Ross just naturally isn’t as concerned as I am over this. He says it’s only been a day and a half. He thinks I’m being paranoid. Maybe I am a bit, I don’t know. I do know Ben, and I don’t think he’d pull any kind of stunt.”
“Was there a custody dispute?”
“Not really. We were living in San Diego at the time. We both wanted what would be best for Shel. Ben wanted us to live near enough so he could see her regularly, but once Ross and I got married and we were going to come back here, Ben briefly made an issue of it. I think that was only because he felt threatened. Ross can be pretty aggressive. But once things were inevitable, Ben accepted it. He’s actually been good. He comes east every other summer, and Michelle goes out there alternate years. He’s a marine biologist, so he likes taking her to the coast.”
“Is her last name the same as his?”
“Nickerson, yes.” The note of concern in her voice was unmistakable. “I don’t know if I should tell you this …”
“Then maybe you should.”
“Well … I woke last night at some god-awful hour, and I sat up in bed and—” She caught a breath. “And just below the threshold of actually speaking it, I thought, ‘he’s dead.’”
“‘He’ being your ex?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what I meant, only that it felt real. I’m pretty intuitive. I think it’s this left-hand, right-brain thing. Ross told me it was just anxiety leaking out.” She smiled feebly. “What do you think?”
“If you hire me, you’re getting an investigator, not a shrink. With missing a person, you never know, but I’ve had some luck finding people. Of course, if it is anything more serious, it’s a matter for the police.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“But you don’t have to worry about getting my approval. If she were my daughter, I’d be doing the same thing.”
She seemed relieved. “Have you got children?”
“No.”
“A wife?” She caught herself. “That’s none of my business. It just came out.”
I knew it had. The answer—yes—almost just came out. “It’s been two years. I’m divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. Well, if you want, I can drive down to Standish and have a look around.”
“I’d like that. How soon?”
“Right now, if you like.”
“Yes. Do you want me to go along? Or call ahead at least? I’ve spoken with the police down there.”
“I’ll figure out an approach. I’ve got an eye patch and a wax nose that work sometimes for undercover work.” She smiled uncertainly a moment before seeing that I was kidding. “It’s a small town,” I said. “Could I borrow that photograph you showed me? And have you got one of your ex?”
Ben she didn’t have, but she got me two of Michelle: the wary kid with wise eyes in both.
“Do you know what kind of car Nickerson is driving?”
“It’s a dark blue Grand Cherokee, with tinted glass. It’ll have California plates.”
I told her what I charged and about the retainer fee. In the kitchen she plucked a pen from the bouquet of pencils and pens in a jar on the counter. “Whom shall I make the check out to?”
“Mass Electric, Blue Cross Blue Shield. My landlord.” I smiled. “Just write it to me; I’ll fend off the others.” I gave her my card and pointed out the spelling change. The “Rassmusen” on the card was supposed to be one s the first time, two the second. “Is that on purpose?” she asked.
“Dyslexic printer. His math’s fine, though. If you hear anything in the meantime, the phone number’s right.”
She walked me back out to my car. “I feel better,” she said. “I couldn’t bear just sitting. I feel like I’ve taken some action.” She gave me a look of shy gratitude and shook my hand, and for an instant, before she let go, I had the idea she didn’t want to.
“I’ll be in touch in a few hours,” I said. “And for the record, I’m a leftie, too.”
She waved as I drove off. Going toward the highway, I thought about a recent conversation I’d had with my office neighbor, Fred Meecham, Esq. He’d said I needed more exposure. A squib in the yellow pages wasn’t sufficient anymore. Why didn’t I put an ad in the Sun or buy some time on the local cable TV channel, he said. He said things were slow, maybe there were people out there who only needed a little prompting to come out of the closet with mysteries they wanted solved. It could be money well spent, he said. Could I do my own voiceover? I asked. Or ge
t a plane to pull a sign over the stadium where Lowell’s Red Sox farm team played? He was serious, he said. I asked him how come he didn’t run an ad; there were attorneys who did, and he didn’t seem that busy lately either. He got flustered and snorted that it would be unprofessional. Now, looping onto 495, I composed ad copy. “P.I.: House Calls, Grills Tended, Master of Disguise, Right-Brain Thinker.” It had possibilities galore.
3
The distance between Lowell and Standish was sixty-five miles, and about forty years. Located on the South Shore of Boston, north of the Cape, it was what you’d expect. It was an All-American town, according to the sign as you entered, and a Crime Watch community, and the Rotary met Tuesdays at noon at Dimitri’s. It was a tidy town center with white-spired Congregational and Unitarian churches and a sun-bleached row of shops arranged around the wedge of the colonial cemetery and town green, complete with old cannons, a bandstand and a moss-flecked granite cistern brimming with pink geraniums. Everything seemed to repose behind picket fences and under the graceful fans of what might be the last American elm trees anywhere. At the end of the road, where Sea Street met Atlantic Avenue, sat a few restaurants, a realtor and a bottled-goods store. Beyond lay the ocean. A rock jetty went out at an angle, serving as a breakwater so that boats could moor inside its protective arm. And they did; the blue water was dotted with sailboats and cruisers of every description. Log onto the Yankee magazine Web site, keyword “quaint.”
In truth, Standish was pretty in the afternoon light. I opened the car windows to the aromas of the ocean, mowed grass and honeysuckle. A knot of teenagers was standing on a corner in front of a rustic drugstore that had big jars of colored water on display in the window. Was one of the kids Michelle Nickerson? It had been a long time since I was sixteen. I don’t think I liked it much: too little to do and too many people telling me how to do it. I still didn’t like the last part. Which is probably why I didn’t miss wearing a uniform.
The Standish Police HQ was in an old wood-frame structure that said “Municipal Hall” above the columned entrance. There was a pair of spanking new Crown Victoria prowlers parked in front. Sometimes you can go in under the radar, but the town seemed small, and time was a factor—I didn’t want to waste any of it being cute. I stepped into a lobby of deep shadows and varnish and the waxy smell I associated with schoolrooms of my childhood. The building also housed the board of selectmen, tax assessor’s office, and shellfish warden, with a sign in the form of a large hand, index finger extended, pointing up a stairway for these latter. In Lowell, the hand would be palm open.
On a glass-enclosed bulletin board were instructions on CPR for drowning victims, a Lyme-disease alert, and a photocopied “Missing” flyer with a picture of a slightly cross-eyed Maine coon cat (there was a five-dollar reward).
Unlike a lot of towns that had gone to bulletproof glass and intercoms as a firewall between the public and public servants, here the door swung open in welcome when I turned the knob. The big windows, which formerly would have required a hooked pole to open, had been refitted with energy-efficient panes that kept the air-conditioning in. A young officer in a short-sleeve khaki uniform was sitting before a computer screen the size of a sports-bar TV. The equipment was a lot better than when I’d been a cop, but the hunt-and-peck hadn’t changed. He hopped up at once and came over. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for Chief Decastro.”
“Delcastro,” he corrected. “With an l.”
“Noted. Is he in?”
“May I ask the nature of your business, sir?”
I told him. Just then, the door rattled behind me. I opened it for another cop, who came in balancing a cardboard tray of take-out coffee cups. “Thanks,” he said. He was even younger than the typist, with a boyish blond crew cut and crisp uniform. His mustache seemed to be an attempt to make him look old enough to carry handcuffs and the 9-mm on his belt. The cops seemed to grow green as willows in Standish. He set the coffee tray on the counter. “Jeez, Ferry,” the speed typist hissed, “took you long enough.”
“No snickerdoodle decaf fresh,” Ferry said. “Fran had to brew some. I know you’re easing off the high-test, and I didn’t figure you wanted non-fat gingerbread latte.”
The typist took two of the sealed cups, one of which he set beside his keyboard, and carried the other into the office at the rear. The cups said “The Storm Warning” on them. When he returned, he said, “Sir, if you come with me, the chief will see you.”
Delcastro, at least, looked old enough to shave. In fact, his cheeks already had the blue ghost of what would be full shadow come five o’clock. I guessed him to be my age. He had intense dark eyes and a stubborn face, which bore the imprint of his years. His black hair was clipped short and starting to fade to gray at the temples. His arms were suntanned and thick, though he wasn’t fat. No piercings, tattoos or visible scars, if it matters. I introduced myself and handed him my investigator’s license. Though he tried to mask it, I saw him frown as he studied it. As he began to jot something on a pad, I scanned the office. A big curtained window at his back faced the town green. The walls held the usual cop clutter: framed photos showing our hero at various phases of his illustrious career; citations from a grateful citizenry; assorted insignia from other law enforcement jurisdictions—cops never seemed to outgrow the Boy Scout yen to collect badges. When Chief Delcastro handed my license back, I told him why I was there. He nodded. “I didn’t think she seemed all that satisfied. Sit down.”
He stepped outside the office a moment and soon reappeared, shutting the door behind him, and took his seat. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mrs. Jensen. I said if she wants to fill out a missing persons report, I’ll file it, and we’ll go from there.”
“She had the feeling you were discouraging her from that.”
“The kid’s a teenager; been gone, what, a day?”
“Almost two now. There’s the girl’s father, also.”
“Exactly. Who gets to see his kid, what, a few weeks in a year? If I spent my time looking for every teen that hasn’t called a parent or who comes from a broken—excuse me, a blended family—I’d be doing nothing else. Have you got kids?”
“No.”
Delcastro shifted his weight carefully on the chair and folded his arms. They were more than just thick; muscles moved in them. Gyms cranked out body boys (and girls) these days like link sausage, but I knew they hadn’t in his era. A lot of cops his age were wearing bellies bigger than their pension. Some of them, though, still believed in courtesy. I said, “I just wanted to check in with you.”
“Look, my town’s ready to explode.” He glanced out the window, so I did, too. Midmorning traffic flowed past the town green where a group of teens—probably the same ones I’d seen in front of the drugstore—were lazily kicking a little leather sack around, trying to keep it in the air. Did Delcastro think it was a bomb?
“I’ve got a summer population that triples,” he said, “budget restraints that make running full-tilt through Labor Day a juggling act. I’ve got traffic and beach parties, and at least once every summer someone misses the turn on Sea Street and cracks into the historic marker. I’ve got the power-squadron types—with more horsepower than brainpower, some of them—turns out I have to winch them off a sandbar. And then there’s heatstroke and sunburns and some backyard gourmet three sheets to the wind spritzes lighter fluid on himself and sautés his weenie.”
“And don’t forget the great white shark,” I said.
He rolled a dark blue gaze my way. “Now you listen to me, hotshot!”
I said, “I recall reading about some town in California that made news by declaring itself a nuclear-safe zone, officially banning the dropping of atomic bombs on the place. Why don’t you decree this a trouble-free town, so everyone will breathe easier? You’ve got a full plate, okay; that’s the cop business. But keep perspective. It’s seasonal. In my town, trouble is round the year. My guess is you signed on for it. In at least
some of those photos there you’re smiling.”
“You’re out of line, buster. And way off your turf. Lowell, for Christ’s sake. I thought they put that in a museum.”
I readied another salvo, but suddenly I heard us: a pair of dogs with our ruffs up. I almost laughed—would have, but I hadn’t sniffed out a sense of humor yet. Despite the modern trappings, there seemed to be a small-town tint of rough justice about the place. Instead, I sighed and sat back. I even gave him a bone. “Yeah, sorry,” I said contritely. “I know what you’re saying. I wore a uniform for eight years.”
“Why didn’t I guess? Ex-cops either open barrooms or hang out a PI shingle. Why’d you leave?”
A veteran cop could smell a phony story a mile away, especially one coming from a private op, whom he’d view as a natural threat anyway. But I didn’t care to have Delcastro inquiring into my past too deeply, so I kept it simple. “I thought I’d see what it’s like to fetch my own coffee.”
His grunt seemed to imply I’d chosen wrong but wasn’t worth his hassling. “Anything doing?”
I shrugged. “I get by.”
He appeared to accept it. We’d stepped off on the wrong foot; it happened sometimes, despite my winsome persona. I understood turf. But now I guess we’d bonded—at least, as much as we were likely to. He pried the plastic lid off his coffee cup and sniffed, probably making sure it wasn’t candy-flavored. “Want some of this? It’s black and usually pretty decent.” I declined, and he took a sip. “Okay, so your client is worried because she hasn’t heard from her daughter. Does she think the girl was taken by a stranger?”
“She’s pretty sure the girl and her father are together,” I admitted.
“But it’s not a domestic abduction?”
“She doesn’t think Nickerson would pull anything like that.”
“What then?”
“That’s what I hope to find out. I understand that Nickerson grew up here?”
“Yeah, long time gone, though.”
“Have you seen him since he’s been back?”
“I didn’t even know he was here until the Jensen woman told me. He’s renting a place out at Cliff Beach for the week, been here since Saturday. He’s welcome, but if he’s got the notion to come back and stir up trouble, I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t.”