“It’s good to know you’re still alive,” he said.
“Hello to you, too, Dad.”
“I haven’t seen you in over a week,” he said. “It would be nice if I got somewhere close to the priority of that ridiculous golf ball you like to whack around grassy pathways.”
“They’re called fairways, not pathways.”
“Whatever. A complete waste of an otherwise enjoyable walk in the woods.”
My father hated golf, not because he didn’t like the game but because he thought it had distracted me from playing tennis. He had always dreamed of watching me at Wimbledon or the French Open, sitting in the family box, pumping his fist at me while the crowds cheered me on to victory. Unfortunately, that was his dream, not mine. Then I stumbled upon golf and got addicted.
If I wasn’t going to be a tennis star, the least I could do as the son of a doctor and a corporate attorney was go into an honorable profession like all the other children of my parents’ friends and colleagues. But I wanted to carve my own path. The idea of solving crimes and sorting out right from wrong had always appealed to me, even at a young age. I really broke his heart a second time when I entered the Chicago Police Academy. He felt that was beneath “my station,” as he called it. Our relationship still hadn’t recovered.
Despite my father’s protests and outrage, my mother had never wavered in her support, constantly standing up to him and explaining that it was important I chase my dreams. She’d died a few years ago from a rare form of kidney cancer. As my father and I still struggled to make sense of her absence, his loneliness drove a greater interest in my work.
“I took on a new case,” I said. “Missing girl.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
“It’s still early. I’m trying to put things together.”
“I’m here whenever you need me,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I’ll come by soon.”
I knew he was at his weekly match at XS Tennis Village down on the South Side. I could hear the echo of the voices and the sound of tennis balls popping off racket strings.
“My match is about to start,” he said. “Gotta run.”
“Hit the ball in your strike zone.”
“Something I told you when you first picked up a racket.”
As I hung up the phone, there was a polite knock on my door.
“Enter at your own risk,” I yelled. I kept the lights off. There was plenty coming in through the windows. Last year my next-door neighbor’s millennial son had spotted me leaving the apartment with a Styrofoam coffee cup and lectured me about my lack of environmental awareness and the need for me to get serious about reducing my carbon footprint. Using fewer lights wasn’t going to save the world, but at least it was a start.
The door swung open and in walked Violet Gerrigan all gussied up in another one of those expensive suits—this one a deep red—and carrying an oversize black leather handbag that had more gold buckles and locks on it than the vaults in Fort Knox. Her hair and makeup were the same. She gave me a polite smile but showed no teeth. Standing next to her was a tall boy somewhere in his late teens. He was thin, dressed in tennis whites, and his blond hair was tousled about in a way that was meant to make you believe he hadn’t given it much attention, when in reality he had probably spent the better part of an hour in front of a mirror agonizing over the arrangement of every strand.
“Good morning, Mr. Cayne,” she said. The rich could even make their greetings sound like commands. “This is my youngest son, Connor. My oldest is married and lives in Seattle with his wife and two children.”
I nodded at both of them. Connor reluctantly returned the nod. His hair held up. He appeared to be timid.
Mrs. Gerrigan didn’t wait for me to make the offer; instead, she took a seat in the same chair she’d sat in yesterday. Connor stood with his hands behind his back and waited for his mother to sit before taking the chair next to hers. Chivalry was alive and well in the Gerrigan household.
After she had settled her handbag on the small end table and gotten herself situated in a chair that I’m sure was much more uncomfortable than she was accustomed to, she said, “Have you gotten any closer to locating my daughter?”
I always marveled at how people with her pedigree could talk and barely move their mouths. Violet Gerrigan had mastered the technique.
I swiveled my chair around and opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of ice tea all in one motion. I made an offering gesture to my visitors, both of whom declined. I popped the top and took a short pull and let the cold liquid explore my mouth before swallowing.
“Not much has changed since we last spoke twenty-four hours ago,” I said. “But I’m pursuing a couple of promising leads.” I really had only one lead, and that was Chopper McNair, whose whereabouts I had yet to ascertain. I was still waiting on Burke to see what he was able to dig up. But when you said “a couple of leads” to a client, it always sounded encouraging, especially when they’d already paid the retainer in full.
“I was thinking of hiring another detective who could work with you,” she said. “Maybe you can cover more ground with another set of eyes and ears.”
“I appreciate the gesture,” I said politely. “But I work best alone.”
“She’s been missing for three days now.”
“I’m aware of that,” I said. “And I’m working extremely hard to move this along. Hiring someone else will only mean two of us doing the same thing and getting in each other’s way.”
Violet Gerrigan considered my words carefully, then said, “I wanted Connor to come because he told me something last night that you might find helpful.”
“I’m
