“You mean why are we here?” Sullivan asked. “Because that motel is claustrophobic and depressing and it’s killing my soul to work there. Plus I want to save my updated notes on my external drive while I’m thinking about it or I’ll forget.”
“I mean why is it like this?”
Sullivan glanced at the house as if trying to figure out what the problem was. “You don’t like it?”
“You’re joking, right? I can’t tell. Please be joking. I can’t believe you live here.”
Sullivan sighed. “You rich boys and your unreasonable standards.”
“Knock it off with the rich boy thing. Not wanting to get rabies is not unreasonable.” Tobias followed Sullivan across the street reluctantly.
“You’re far more likely to get tetanus than rabies. Let’s not be silly.”
Tobias was taken aback by the urge to smile.
Instead of leading him up the sidewalk, Sullivan headed for the edge of the property and the open gate to the backyard. They waded through a mass of weeds on the other side. “Why are we going this way?”
“Front door deadbolt died this morning, so I’ve got a cement block keeping it closed from inside,” Sullivan said over his shoulder.
“Doesn’t that violate the fire code?” Tobias asked, and Sullivan laughed, which was not at all reassuring.
There were white-painted cement stairs to the left leading up to a sun porch with a screen door clinging halfheartedly to its hinges, and a bright red sign—the only intact thing on the whole property so far—taped to it. Danger, Fumigation Chemicals Present. Do Not Enter. May Cause Death.
Tobias stopped short. “Did you bring me here to kill me?”
Sullivan laughed again as he tugged on the doorknob, and the door swung open easily because there was no spring to resist. “That’s meant to scare off invaders until I get a new door installed.”
The inside of the sun porch had been stripped clean so that the stanchions stood exposed, as if someone had been putting work into the structure of the thing. Sullivan led him through a pair of tidy French doors.
With the weak sunshine that leaked through the filthy screens, Tobias could see that the family room, at least, was in pretty good shape. The hardwood floors shone and the crown molding over the doorways was lovely, and the mismatched but lived-in decor gave the space a cozy sort of atmosphere. The sofa and armchair were the overstuffed, comfy kind that begged to be napped on, an old, beat-up trunk served as a coffee table, the surface watermarked and scarred, and a painting hung on one wall.
It was a painting of a seagull wearing yellow rubber rain boots, but still. It was art.
And there were books everywhere.
Two wide bookshelves were stuffed to overflowing, paperbacks jammed horizontally above double-stacked rows, and leaning towers of hardcovers rose to knee height everywhere except where a narrow bare path wound through the room and led deeper into the house.
Standing in front of the nearest shelf, Tobias turned his head sideways to read the titles. The Logic of Alice by Bernard M. Patten, The Book of Divination by Ann Fiery, Cookie Dough Delights by Camilla V. Saulsbury, How to Build and Modify GM LS-Series Engines by Joseph Potak and Twilight by Stephenie Meyer.
Sullivan owned Twilight. This time the threatening smile made it to Tobias’s face. “You have eclectic taste.”
“Yeah, a bit.” Sullivan had gone through the alcove into the dining room, which was still mid-renovation; a card table and two folding chairs took up most the space, a hole gaped in the ceiling where a chandelier was probably meant to go, and the baseboards had been ripped up.
Tobias wandered over to the painting, charmed by the whimsy of the seagull. All told, it was not the kind of place he’d have expected a guy with a mohawk and tattoos to live.
“Do you feel bad about judging me now?” Sullivan asked, although his tone didn’t reflect insult at all. He sounded almost amused. When Tobias winced, he added, “You can say it. You thought I lived in a crack den.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” Tobias admitted grudgingly.
“Nah, I’m not offended. One of my sisters and her husband flip houses for a living. I like moving around, so every few months when they get a new place, they cut me a serious break on rent in exchange for some manual labor and running off the occasional would-be squatter.” He patted the table and Tobias realized he was standing there staring around like a yokel, with his arms full of food.
“Lot of books to move every few months.” Tobias dumped everything on the table.
“I don’t take most of them. Most of my favorites are on my Kindle, and anything else goes to libraries or used bookstores on moving day. When I’m settled in a new place, the whole accrual cycle starts again.”
While they ate, they talked—Sullivan with his mouth full occasionally, Tobias with far more civility because he had manners.
“Okay, so let’s lay out what we know,” Sullivan said, one foot bouncing under the table. “Back in, what, ’87, ’88? We’ve got Larry the crime lord wannabe with his young Russian pregnant girlfriend who eventually turned into Mama, the legit crime lord.”
“Lady,” Tobias interjected.
Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Roughly five years later, in February of ’92, he’s dead, along with a bunch of his bodyguards and his housekeeper, while the girlfriend-slash-crime lady and the ten-year-old girl are nowhere to be seen. Six years ago, someone bought a condo in that dead housekeeper’s name. And that same someone has been, of late, housing a prostitute in that condo in partial payment for a ‘favor.’ That prostitute accepted a ride thirteen days ago from a stranger in a vehicle that we have not yet identified.” Sullivan dipped a chip in ketchup and jabbed it in the air toward Tobias. “Stop making that face.”
“Come on. You’re thinking it too. Nathalie’s with
