losing sight of one another. Each door we opened was crucial. Was there a lady in there? Or a tiger? I could feel my shirt getting wetter and clinging to my back. Each door we opened and closed off brought the conclusion closer and none of us had a plan for the conclusion. Even though the conclusion might be eternal. At the bottom of the stairs we had to turn a sharp left. My three guards backed slowly around the corner, I held on to Costigan’s belt and slid around after them.
“Dosey doe,” I said.
Hawk had changed tunes, and mode of presentation. He was whistling softly through his teeth now, “Autumn Serenade.”
“You’re going to go through every room?” Costigan said. His voice sounded strained, as if his throat had narrowed.
“Yes,” I said.
“And when you’re finished, and you haven’t found her,” he said. “What then?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
We went into a suite of rooms. They must have been the son’s quarters. If The Sharper Image catalogue sold fully furnished suites for young men they would look like this.
The furniture was mostly of clear plastic, formed in one-piece curved shapes. A huge globe stood on a black lacquer coffee table. The bed had a canopy. There was a whole wall of stereo, television, tape, radio components in gleaming silver, with enormous speakers. In a. living room off the bedroom was a glass and lacquer bar, fully stocked, and a small kitchen: The bathroom included a sauna and steam, there was a Jacuzzi in the tub. All of the appliances and tile were in emerald green with gold accent touches. There were fireplaces in bedroom and living room and over each hung a silver-inlaid shotgun. On the mantel in the bed room was a picture of Susan and a man. The picture appeared to have been snapped at a party.
“Russell,” Hawk said.
Susan’s head was back and her mouth was wide open with laughter. Russell’s head was tipped toward her and he seemed to be exhaling cigarette smoke, a wisp of which traced off to the edge of the picture. He was surprisingly ordinary-looking for a man who’d attracted Susan. He looked young, but his hair was already receding, and there was a quality of undefinedness to his face.
Russell had a lot of clothes, three walk-in closets full, hung carelessly. Some had fallen from hangers and were crumpled on the floor. His shoes were in a pile on the floor of the closet.
“Hard to get good help these days,” I said, looking at the jumble of shoes and clothes on the bottom of one of the bedroom closets.
We moved on.
There was nothing else that mattered on the second floor. We’d been looking for nearly an hour. If Hawk felt the strain of holding a .44 gun up under Costigan’s chin for that long he didn’t show it. My left hand felt cramped from holding Costigan’s belt.
The first floor had, besides Costigan’s enormous living room, an enormous dining room, an enormous kitchen, a pantry, and a two-bedroom suite in a wing off the back. One bedroom was Costigan’s. It was very ordinary. Efficient and comfortable, but no more personal than the best room in a Ramada Renaissance Hotel. Off the bedroom was a sitting room that was obviously used as an office. It too was sparse. There was a phone on an oak table that was used as a desk. A swivel chair, an oak file cabinet, a Xerox machine, and a tape recorder. We went back into the hall.
“My wife is in bed through the door on your right,” Costigan said.
“No help for it,” I said. “Got to look.”
“We three will go in,” Costigan said. “The rest will wait outside. Gary, you watch us through the door.”
Gray Hair nodded. The others moved down the hall a few steps.
We opened the door and went in. Mrs. Costigan was in bed watching television. She had her gray hair up in rollers and some night cream on her face and looked fifteen years older than her husband. Her bulk under the satin spread was considerable.
She said, “Jerry, Jesus, Mary and Joseph…”
Costigan raised one hand like a traffic cop. “Just be still, Grace,” he said. “This isn’t as bad as it looks.”
“You’ll have to join us, Mrs. Costigan,” I said.
“Why you want me to do that?” she said in a little-girl voice. “I’m in my pajamas.”
“Get a robe,” I said.
Mrs. Costigan said, “Don’t look.”
Hawk said, “Hunh,” softly under his breath. Mrs. Costigan dragged the spread off the bed and held it around her as she went to the closet. She managed somehow to get an aqua velour robe around her fat body before she dropped the spread. No one saw anything. Everyone was relieved.
Mrs. Costigan’s room was pink with gray woodwork and floor-length pink drapes. The carpet was gray and the furniture was white. There were pink satin sheets on the bed. A huge color television with a white cabinet stood at the far wall opposite the bed. Mrs. Costigan was watching Dallas. There was a sitting room off her bedroom as well, with French doors that opened onto a patio. The room was gray with pink woodwork and gray drapes and a pink carpet. One wall was all glass, and before it a large makeup table sat with lighting arranged around the mirror wall and adjustable spotlighting on the table.
No one else was in the rooms and they were the last rooms. Costigan, Hawk, and I stood touching closely in the center of the dressing room. Mrs. Castigan hovered uncertainly near, and Gary watched quietly from the doorway.
“What now,” Costigan said.
“Now we talk and you tell us where she is,” I said.
