Private Eyes

***

Six-twenty, still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I phoned my service and was told Professor “Sam Ficker” had called and left a Boston number.

I phoned it and got a young child on the line.

“Hello?”

“Professor Fiacre, please.”

“My daddy’s not home.”

“Do you know where he is?”

An adult female voice broke in: “Fiacre residence. Who’s calling?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning Professor Fiacre’s call.”

“This is the babysitter, Doctor. Seth said you might be calling. Here’s the number where you can reach him.”

She read off the number and I copied it down. Thanking her, I gave her the Tankard’s number for callback, hung up, and dialed the one she’d given me.

A male voice said, “Legal Seafoods, Kendall Square.”

“I’m trying to reach Professor Fiacre. He’s having dinner there.”

“Spell that, please.”

I did.

“Hold on.”

A minute passed. Three more. Ramp appeared to be rousing. Sitting up with great effort, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve, blinked, looked around, and stared at me.

No apparent recognition. Closing his eyes, he drew the tablecloth around his shoulders and settled back down.

Seth came on the phone. “Alex?”

“Hi, Seth. Sorry to bother you at dinner.”

“Perfect timing- we’re between courses. I couldn’t get much on the Gabneys, other than that their leaving wasn’t totally voluntary. So they may have been up to something unsavory but I sure couldn’t find out what it was.”

“Were they asked to leave Harvard?”

“Not officially. Nothing procedural as far as I can tell- the people I spoke to really didn’t want to get into details. What I gathered was that it was a mutual thing. They gave up tenure and split, and whoever knew something didn’t belabor it. As to what that something is, I don’t know.”

“Anything on the types of patients they were treating?”

“Phobics. That’s about it. Sorry.”

“I appreciate your trying.”

“I did run a search through Psych Abstracts and Medline to try to find out what kind of work they were doing. As it turns out, not much. She never published anything. Until four years ago, Leo was still cranking the stuff out. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. No more experiments, no clinical studies, just a couple of essays- very soft stuff. The kind of rEsumE-filler he’d never have gotten published if he wasn’t Leo Gabney.”

“Essays on what?”

“Philosophical issues- free will, the importance of taking personal responsibility. Spirited attacks on determinism- how any behavior can be changed, given the proper identification of congruent stimuli and reinforcers. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“Doesn’t sound too controversial.”

“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s old age.”

“What is?”

“Getting philosophical and abandoning real science. I’ve seen other guys go through it when they hit menopause. Gotta tell my students if I ever start doing it, take me out and shoot me.”

We traded pleasantries for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. When the line was clear, I called the GALA Banner. A recording informed me that the paper’s office was closed. No beep for messages. I dialed Boston Information and tried to get a home number for the editor, Bridget McWilliams. A B. L. McWilliams was listed on Cedar in Roxbury, but the voice that answered there was male, sleepy, tinged with a Caribbean accent, and certain he had no relation named Bridget.

By six-forty, I’d been alone in the restaurant for over two hours and had grown to hate the place. I found some writing paper behind the bar, along with a portable radio. KKGO was no longer playing jazz, so I made do with soft rock. I kept thinking about missed connections.

Seven o’clock. Scratch marks on paper. Still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I decided to stick around until Milo reached Sacramento, then call him and beg off the assignment. Go home, attend to my fish eggs, maybe even call Robin… I phoned my exchange again, left a message for Milo in case I was out when he called.

The operator recorded it dutifully, then said, “There’s one for you, if you want it, Doctor.”

“From whom?”

“Someone named Sally Etheridge.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“Just her name and number. It’s long distance- another six-one-seven area code. What is that, Boston?”

“Yes,” I said. “Give me the number. Please.”

“Important, huh?”

“Maybe.”

***

A human being answered, “Uh-huh.” Female. Music in the background. I switched off my radio. The music on the other end took shape: rhythm and blues, lots of horns. James Brown, maybe.

“Ms. Etheridge?”

“Speaking.”

“Dr. Alex Delaware calling from Los Angeles.”

Silence. “I was wondering if you’d call back.” Hoarse and husky, Southie accent.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m not the one asking.”

“Did Bridget McWilliams give you my number?”

“Bingo,” she said.

“Are you a reporter on the Banner?”

“Oh, yeah, right. I interview circuit breakers. I’m an electrician, mister.”

“But you do know Kathy- Kate Moriarty?”

“These questions are coming awfully fast,” she said. Talking slowly- deliberate slowness. Small laugh at the end of the sentence. I thought I detected an alcohol slur. But maybe being with Ramp all this time had biased my perceptions.

“Kate’s been gone for over a month,” I said. “Her family-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that tune. Got it from Bridge. Tell the family not to get bent out of shape. Kate disappears a lot- that’s her thing.”

“This time it may not be routine.”

“Think so?”

“I do.”

“Well,” she said, “you’re entitled.”

“If you’re not worried, why’d you bother to call?”

Pause. “Good question… I don’t even know you. So why don’t we cut our losses and make bye-bye-”

“Hold on,” I said. “Please.”

“A polite one, huh?” Laugh. “Okay, you got a minute.”