“He is a very devout man,” I said.
“And?”
“We found religious articles in his closet that he never would leave behind if he were leaving of his own accord. He’d need them every day.”
“So he has spares or bought new ones.”
“It’s not like that. His own would have special meaning to him.”
I wondered whether I should tell Gianelli about the money in David’s tallis bag. But he might want it as evidence, and if David was truly gone, I wanted it to go to his parents: you could almost bury a man for that much.
“You got much experience with missing persons?” Gianelli asked.
“I’ve found a few,” I said.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Mostly runaways.”
“Mostly.”
“That’s because most missing persons turn out to be runaways. Boston, Toronto, doesn’t matter. The statistics are always the same. Then you get the elderly who wander off. Kids caught up in custody fights. Guys who owe money or stole money or are about to be arraigned for something. You get the ones about to get married, usually guys, need to have one last kick at the can, they disappear for a week. David Fine doesn’t fit any of these. He has no criminal history of any kind. No budgetary control at the hospital. No money missing there that anyone knew about. See, we did ask. We checked everything. But we found nothing. There is no reason for him to be missing, but he is. And I am frustrated by that and I do worry about him. But there is one thing I want to make clear.”
He paused, trying to make me ask what that was. I liked him all right so I asked.
“Ron Fine-I bet he told you how unfortunate it is his son lives in Brookline, not Boston, that he got stuck with our Mickey Mouse force instead of the good old BPD. And what I want you to be clear on is that it’s utter bullshit. I was Boston PD for twelve years before I came here, and this force is better in every way when it comes to serving and protecting our public. Don’t be fooled by this building. We’re a good-sized force for a town this size and when we get a call, we move on it. Maybe we don’t get all the problems Boston gets, and we certainly don’t get the homicides, but we get our share of actual crime. We get scumbags drifting up here from Jamaica Plain and Roxbury. We get sexual assaults and gunpoint robberies and brawls and domestics and all-round bad behaviour, and we show up and close a better percentage of them than the BPD. So no moaning about we got stuck with the small- town force, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Ron Fine is goddamn lucky his son lives here because we’ve tried hard to find him and we are still trying. There just isn’t any trace. So here is what I’m going to do,” he said. “You want to ask around as a private citizen? Interview his roommate, neighbours, his boss if you’re so lucky? Go ahead. I won’t stop you, mostly because his parents should feel they’ve done everything they can. But don’t step on anyone’s toes around here. I don’t want to get complaints about you. And if you find out anything I didn’t, you share it with me quick-that fair?”
“Yes.”
“I also want the make, model and plate of your car. Case you plan on doing any surveillance within our boundaries.”
“It’s a Dodge Caliber.” I fished out the keys and read the plate number from a tag on the key ring.
As I was leaving he said, “You planning on introducing yourself to the BPD? Showing them your licence?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” I said. “Boston is where David works.”
“Wish I could be there when you do,” Gianelli said with a grin. “Having worked there those twelve years, I can tell you they’re not as accepting of private investigators as we are in Brookline. My advice to you, if your business takes you into Boston, contact the BPD before they need to contact you. And keep your head up when you do.”
CHAPTER 6
A uniformed cop stood under the glass entrance to the Brookline Police Department, arms folded across his chest, eyes following Jenn’s behind as she walked up Washington Street to where I sat on the lawn of the local library. His just reward for a hard day policing these tree-lined streets.
“All done,” she said, sitting down beside me. “Colin will have David’s laptop no later than nine a.m. tomorrow and Karl will pick it up on his way to the shop.”
I told her about the effort the Brookline police had mustered to find David, and what Gianelli had said about the BPD.
“So we shouldn’t expect any help from them.”
“Not much. Bullshit and bullying, maybe, according to Gianelli.”
“Disgruntled ex-employee?”
“Didn’t strike me that way.”
“Think he’s any good?”
“He seemed like a decent guy. I think David’s parents got to him too.”
“He’s not giving up?”
“He said he’s not. But unless a patrol officer bumps into David on the street, it’s up to us now. Let’s go back to his house around seven tonight.”
“Why then?”
“It’s the time he went missing,” I said. “And people are creatures of habit.”
Back at our hotel, we dumped all of David’s paperwork onto one of the beds in my room and began combing through it. His bank statements seemed very straightforward: nothing to explain how five thousand in cash came his way. His modest pay was deposited directly into his account every other Thursday, and he withdrew a hundred dollars every Monday, never more or less. His allowance for the week. His credit card statements had only small balances, always paid in full every month.
“I wish he could show me how that’s done,” Jenn said.
“I’d rather he showed us where the five grand came from. The only thing I can think of is those poker books … they stuck out like three sore thumbs.”
“You think he’s into big games?”
“I don’t know. Sheldon didn’t mention it.”
“Would he know? It didn’t sound like they pay much attention to each other.”
She continued rifling through papers while I called Sheldon. His cell went straight to voice mail. I left a message asking him to call on his next break.
Jenn had David’s phone bills on her lap: they showed regular long-distance calls to his parents in Toronto. Nothing else jumped out.
I picked up the research papers we had taken. From between them a folded sheet of paper fell to the floor like an autumn leaf.
It was a missing person poster. It showed a middle-aged Indian man named Harinder Patel, and he had vanished the week before David Fine.
Because Jenn is so much better at extracting information from people over the phone, she got to lie in bed in her room and make calls, while I got my first taste of driving in Boston. I took out the GPS unit, nestled it on the dash in its weighted sack and plugged it into the lighter socket. Once it was on, I punched in the address I wanted in Somerville, which I could see on the screen was north of Cambridge. I followed the posh gal’s instructions to Mass Avenue and took the bridge there across into Cambridge, where low-hanging clouds seemed to be trailing veils of rain. It reminded me a lot of the Annex at home, the streets lined with bookstores, cafes and indie restaurants. Young people walking everywhere, lost in their earbuds, cellphones and the occasional conversation with an actual person. Older lefties and ex-hippies, holding out against age, prowling around the bookstores in jeans, moccasins and soft leather jackets, grey ponytails poking out the backs of their ball caps.
