twelve.”
Behr felt his heart banging in his chest. “Did he ever turn up? You know anything else about it?”
“No. It was sad what happened. Weird. Scary.”
“That it is,” he agreed.
“You on his case, looking for him?” she wondered.
“Yeah. Indirectly,” he answered.
The line behind him was three or four deep now. He rattled off the last two names but drew blanks from her.
Paul saw Behr leaving the doctor ’ s office at a near run. When he drew close to the car and came around to the passenger side, Paul put down the window. “Get something?” he asked.
Behr nodded. “One hit. A patient. You drive to the next place so I can just hop out. It ’ ll be faster.”
Paul slid over behind the wheel and pointed the car toward the next location. The car wasn ’ t smooth like his LeSabre, the transmission changed gears in a jagged way, but he was surprised at its power, which he used to get them where they were going faster than the law permitted.
He waited, fairly going out of his skin, in the idling car, while Behr checked each office systematically. He found that four other missing children were former patients of the doctors and dentists. One doctor, who specialized in pediatric oncology, refused to give any information, even a confirmation, regarding his patients and threatened to call the police on Behr if he continued to press the matter. They were both in a lather by the end of the day, with only one address to go. The last office was that of Jamie ’ s dentist, Dr. Ira Sibarsky, and Paul led the way.
“Hey, Karen,” he said to the receptionist-hygienist who was up front, seated at a computer desk beneath an oversize toothbrush mounted on the wall.
“Paul,” she said, surprise and dismay registering on her face. It was the expression of helpless pity that everyone who knew about Jamie gave him. If he ’ d ever appreciated the sympathy, he sure couldn ’ t remember when. “How are you?”
“Good, good. Can I talk to Ira for a minute?” She nodded and disappeared in the back. Paul looked at Behr and they stood and waited, breathing in the faint mint and medicinal smell of the place. Soon the dentist, a smallish man with curly gray hair and a rounded rabbitlike nose, appeared in the doorway and beckoned them to the back.
The dentist ’ s office was decorated in muted plaids. X-rays of teeth and bite molds littered a scarred wooden desk. Paul remembered the other times he ’ d been in the office, when the biggest problem in his life was a pair of Jamie ’ s cavities that needed filling. Sibarsky sat back in a threadbare office chair and took off his glasses.
“What ’ s up, Paul, and…?”
“This is Frank Behr. He ’ s a private investigator who ’ s helping us regarding Jamie.”
“Oh, I see,” Sibarsky said. “Any word?”
“What can you tell us about your landlord?” Paul said, unwilling to discuss details.
“My landlord?” the dentist asked, concern spreading over his face.
“That ’ s right. I ’ d tell you if you had any cause to worry, Ira,” Paul said with assurance.
“Hemlock Point Realty. I don ’ t have much contact with them. I leased the space from Polly someone or other seven years ago. She ’ s the one I call if need be. I send in a check on or about the first of the month. The roof leaked once. They put in a new bathroom three or four years ago. Why?”
“Have you ever dealt with Oscar Riggi?” Paul asked. He ’ d learned from watching Behr that this was a probing exercise, not a conversation, and as such he was best served not wasting time answering the other person ’ s questions. It may have struck Sibarsky as a bit rude, but Paul was well beyond caring.
“No. I don ’ t think I know him. Something about the name is familiar.”
“He ’ s the principal of Hemlock Point. Midforties. Expensive clothes. Bald-headed. Strong-looking,” Paul elaborated.
Sibarsky nodded. “Sure, sure. I ’ ve seen him. He inspected after the new bathroom was installed.”
“He ever come by at other times?” Behr asked, joining the proceedings for the first time.
Sibarsky ’ s glance swiveled toward Behr. “No.”
“Does he have a key? Could he access the office when you ’ re closed? Have you ever been robbed or suspected that your records or files were disturbed?” Behr continued.
“No. You don ’ t think…” Sibarsky considered, seeming to grow nervous at the idea of it. He stared at the two blank faces and stuck to answering the questions. “I suppose the company has keys in case of emergency. I ’ ve never seen evidence they were in here. Do you think he ’ s involved — ”
“What about other employees of Hemlock Point?” Paul cut him off.
“Have you ever met or heard of Tad Ford or Garth Mintz?” Behr added.
“No, I haven ’ t,” Sibarsky said, raising his hands off the desk slightly.
Paul glanced at Behr and the look he got in return told him they were done there.
As they got up, Ira Sibarsky ’ s lips moved silently for a few seconds before he spoke. “I ’ m…we ’ re all real sorry about the situation…”
Paul snapped off a curt nod and walked out the door.
They stood outside the car and looked over the list of the places they ’ d been to, the names.
“There ’ s one more stop,” Behr said.
“Besides Riggi ’ s house,” Paul clarified.
“Right.” It wasn ’ t a medical office or a strip mall. It was a house, a rental property, on Kellogg Street. “I ’ ll drive this time,” Behr said.
They drove over to the Hawthorne area, the environs going seedy as they neared their destination. It looked like some blight was killing the trees along Lynhurst. They drifted slowly down Kellogg, which was lined by houses that were trying hard to maintain their dignity. Most were white or gray, recently painted, but with thin coats of cheap paint. Then they saw number 96. It was painted a sickly green color and appeared to be abandoned. The paint had given up and was peeling off in long curls, and the weather had been getting at the wood underneath. The lawn wasn ’ t tended. If it ’ d been summer, the grass would have grown over a foot high since its last cutting. As it was, it was weedy and brown. There was a drooping narrow porch leading to a pitted front door. Behr pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. They observed the house for any signs of life, of which there were none.
“At what point do we involve the cops?” Paul wondered out loud.
“At some point. But I need to get into this house first, and the police will prevent that from happening.”
“We ’ re going in then?”
“I am.”
Behr leaned over and reached across Paul, opening the glove compartment. He fished around in it for a moment, under registration and insurance papers, before he found what he was looking for: two small pieces of black-painted metal, one twisted like a drill bit, the other L-shaped like an Allen wrench but flat at the end.
Behr got out, looking up and down the street for any neighbors. No one was around. Paul stepped out of the car as well and followed as Behr walked up the few steps and onto the porch. He pounded on the front door, then put his ear against it. Both of them listened.
“Nothing,” he said, walking down the steps and around the side of the house. They peered in the windows and saw darkened rooms, mostly devoid of furniture or anything else. There was a side door with a corroded brass knob. Behr tried it, and though it turned a bit in its casing, it was locked. They continued on and reached the windows of what would have been a back bedroom. They were unable to see inside, as the windows were painted black.
After a full orbit around the outside, Behr led them back to the locked side door. He took a knee and produced the two pieces of metal he ’ d taken from the glove compartment. He slid the one that looked like a drill bit into the keyhole on the knob. He jiggled it around for a moment and then inserted the Allen wrench — looking piece next to it. For the next five minutes Behr ’ s hands worked as if he was conducting a miniature concert. He seemed to make progress. The knob rattled a bit but didn ’ t yield.
“I can only get one pin and there are two others,” Behr said, removing the tools and standing up.
“Lock ’ s too strong?”
“Lock ’ s a piece of shit. This small tension tool and pry bar won ’ t get it done, though. The pins are too far apart along the shear line for it.”
“What next?”
