both happy. Cool. But did that mean I was supposed to keep the relationship moving forward? Or were we now entering the next round of status quo? And if so, how long should I expect it to last? Years again? Or was I already supposed to be taking another step?
The problem surfaced-if only in my mind-every time she came over. We were “together,” but we didn’t live together, nothing like that. She had her place; I had mine. She stayed over from time to time-that was nice (damn nice, actually), but eventually, she always ended up going home-to her home, that is.
All these questions-questions I never even dreamed I’d be considering until a short while ago-were starting to weigh heavily. Then again, I
After lunch, Toni and I went back to the office where I spent the next half hour answering e-mails and returning phone calls. I entered a few invoices into our accounting system-as a business owner, I wear many hats. As I looked over the check register and checked my bank balance, it became pretty clear that Logan PI was going to be needing some work pretty soon-the kind of work that paid. I’ve long since come to understand that the business’s cash position doesn’t grow in a nice steady line. Far from it, actually. It bounces up and down in a wild sawtooth kind of way. Fortunately, most times, it trends up. When we get ahead of the curve, I draw funds out and stash them into my savings reserve. That’s the good news. The bad news is that with four employees on the books plus the office rent, the overhead is relentless-the meter never stops ticking. We need to keep this machine busy, that’s for sure. Looking at the computer screen, I could see that if we didn’t start pulling in some paying jobs pretty soon, I’d have to tap the reserves. I thought back to the couple of times in the past four years that I’d had to do that. Going backward leaves a bad taste. I hate it.
My phone rang, startling me back to the here and now.
“You ready?” Toni asked over the intercom.
“Yeah, I’ll be right out.”
Speaking of non-paying jobs, we’d decided to make a quick run up to Isabel’s house in Lynnwood. Her mom worked swing shift at a nearby hospital, and we hoped to catch her before she left for work. If we could spend a few minutes with her before her husband got home, we hoped she might answer some questions for us. I grabbed my keys and a notebook, and we hit the road. We slogged our way through Lake Union traffic and twenty minutes later, we were on I-5 headed north.
“What do you think we’ll find?” Toni asked as we crossed Portage Bay on Lake Union.
I thought for a second. “From what Kelli told us, my guess is we’ll find a pretty dysfunctional family.”
Toni nodded. “Safe guess. Do you think the woman will talk to us?”
“Hard to say,” I said. “Remember, we’ve only heard one side of the story-and that second hand to boot. What Isabel said to Kelli is a serious charge, to be sure. But just to be safe, I don’t think we should be jumping to any conclusions as to whether or not it’s true-at least not until we talk to some of the other people involved. We don’t have enough information yet.”
Toni nodded again. We drove north for ten minutes or so without talking, listening to more of the new Brandi Carlile album.
We had just passed the Edmonds ferry off-ramp at Highway 104 when Toni turned to me.
“Thank you,” she said.
I glanced at her. “For what?”
“Thanks for taking the time to look into this.”
I smiled. “For you? Anything.”
“That’s nice, but this job doesn’t pay, and I know we need some paying jobs.” I hadn’t gone over our financial picture with Toni, but it didn’t come as any great surprise that she’d been able to figure it out. She’s quick, and she doesn’t miss much.
I shrugged. “We’ll be fine,” I said. “We have some things coming up.”
She was quiet for a few seconds, and then she said, “Well, thanks, in any case. You don’t have to do this.”
I smiled. “I want to. It’s important to you. And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me. Besides, I’d probably be all over this anyway-runaway abused teenager and all. That’s not really something you can say no to. Let’s just do a little checking around and see if there’s anything there.”
We got off the freeway at the Alderwood Mall Parkway exit in Lynnwood. I hung a quick left on 196th and three minutes later, we pulled up in front of Isabel’s house on 192nd Street. The neighborhood was a subdivision of single-family homes that looked to have the inexpensive, low-detail style that was prevalent in the early ’70s. Still, the landscape was mature and, for the most part, the homes were well kept. Isabel’s home at 4268 was one of a handful of exceptions-it was definitely in need of repair. The brown paint on the two-story home was faded to a grayish tan. The white trim was peeling. The door, also white, was worn and scuffed. The front lawn had more holes and weeds than lawn.
A light blue, ten-year-old Nissan sat next to an old pickup truck in the driveway. The primer-covered truck clearly hadn’t moved in quite some time-if the dirt and cracked windshield weren’t enough of a giveaway, the fact that both tires on the right side were flat was. The truck had a definite list and appeared to be banking like a motorcycle into a gentle right sweeper.
“Home, sweet home,” Toni said.
“It’s a shithole,” I agreed. “But I’ve seen worse.”
Toni nodded. “I believe it.”
We got out of the Jeep and walked to the front door. I rang the bell.
A few seconds later, an attractive woman opened the door. She was a couple of inches shorter than Toni, and she had dark, wavy hair. She was dressed in business clothes-royal blue blazer, a green skirt with a white top. She looked to be perhaps forty years old.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said. “Are you Marisol Webber?” Kenny had looked up the property owner records before we left so that we had full names.
As soon as I spoke, the woman’s eyebrows arched, and she sucked in her breath.
She nodded. “Are you police?” she asked. “Are you here about Isabel? Did something happen to her?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re not the police.” I handed her my business card, and Toni did the same. “We’re private investigators,” I said. “But you’re right-we are here about Isabel. We wondered if we might be able to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”
“You’re not police?” she asked again. She studied our cards carefully. I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”
“We’re here because a friend of Isabel’s contacted us,” Toni said. “She said Isabel is missing, and she’s concerned about her. We were asked to look into things.”
“Who?” Marisol asked. “Who hired you?”
We didn’t want to reveal Kelli’s name to Isabel’s mother, and especially not to her stepfather. “I’m afraid we’re not able to say,” I said. “Our client asked to remain anonymous. At least for the time being. They want to protect their privacy, but they are very concerned about Isabel. I’m sure you understand.”
She looked at me, confused.
“Would you mind if we came in and asked you a few questions?” Toni said.
Marisol hesitated. She glanced up and down the street quickly. “Okay,” she said. “But just for a few minutes. I have to go to work.”
“Thank you,” Toni said.
Marisol led us inside to the living room. The home was clean and neat. Toni and I sat on an overstuffed, floral-print sofa. Marisol sat in a chair across from us.
“Marisol-,” I started to say.
“Please, call me Mary,” she said. “I’m not used to Marisol anymore.”
I smiled. “Okay, sorry, Mary.” I opened my notebook. “Can you start by confirming for us that Isabel is missing?”
She stared at me for a moment. “She’s not home, if that’s what you mean.”
I cocked my head. Word games? C’mon. “Alright. Let me ask it another way,” I said. “Do you know where Isabel is?”
