room is referred to as a great room. It was a room that showed every sign it was comfortably lived in. Walter noticed the cushions on the large, tan, fabric-covered couch were spread about randomly, not perfectly in place. Someone had been lying there, maybe napping, recently. Two paperback books were on the coffee table that separated the couch and a large recliner from the TV. He couldn’t make out the titles, but he did see that the spine on each was broken in a manner to show they’d been opened and read. The copy of TIME he recognized to be the current one. The floor was carpeted, and had two small throw rugs on either side of the coffee table. Family photos hung on the wall. Walter took note of the one showing Conchita, Harry and Sadie. It had been taken outside, in the front yard of the Fagan house, with all three standing next to the big pine tree that dominated the lawn.
They went into the kitchen to sit and talk. Sadie motioned for Walter to have a seat at the small, wooden block table. Her half-filled coffee cup and today’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution lay facing him. A copper bowl loaded with fruit-apples, oranges, plums and bananas-rested in the middle of the table. The faint scent of cooking oil hung in the air.
“Can I get you something?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
“A cold drink perhaps?”
“Sure, any diet soda, please. That would be nice.”
Sadie Fagan put a cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper in front of Walter. He thanked her as she said, “You said Conchita hired you to find Harry? I didn’t know he was missing.” The tone of her voice told Walter she was not especially concerned. He gave two possibilities for that: first, she knew where Harry was; second, she’d heard from him, maybe today. One or both might be true, he thought. It was too early to know. Of course, she might not know anything at all about this.
“Conchita hasn’t spoken to you about this?” he asked.
“No, she hasn’t. We don’t talk all that frequently, you know.”
“You’re not close?”
“Oh, we’re very close. No, no, I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that we don’t talk all that frequently.” Walter stared at her, waiting for more, and she added, “We’re both very busy.”
Walter began where Conchita brought him in. He made it plain to Sadie that what he told her was what had been told to him. He had no firsthand knowledge of events. He told Sadie everything Conchita had told him about Harry, the document he came into possession of and his flight from London, to parts unknown. He said only that certain people’s deaths contributed to the confusion that might have precipitated Harry’s disappearance. He offered no details or names. He didn’t say why any of this had happened. He never mentioned the Kennedys. He watched her eyes and the corners of her mouth as he told her about people having already died in connection with Harry’s disappearance, looking for signs of some existing understanding on Sadie’s part. How much did she know? He saw nothing remarkable. She talked with Harry weekly, at least once a week, she said. But it was not unusual to go days without a call. She really didn’t know he was in any trouble.
He asked Sadie about the early years with the four of them living in her house. “Tell me about Elana,” he said. Sadie told him the whole story of David being drafted, Elana being pregnant, David getting killed-that’s how she put it-Harry being born and the two of them moving to Atlanta. Elana Levine had been dead eight years, but it was easy to see how much Sadie missed her. Then she changed the subject.
“Why did Conchita hire you? I mean, why you?” She tried not to sound judgmental.
“I help people in this way,” Walter said. “It’s the work I do.”
“What way?”
“I find people, missing people, people who may be lost.”
“How long?” Sadie asked. Walter understood her perfectly, knew exactly what she was getting at. He was inclined to like this little old lady with a slight hint of a moustache.
“Thirty years,” he answered, with a warm grin Sadie returned. It was a look only two older people could share. “Forty, if you count the Army.”
“Vietnam?” she asked, nodding her head to indicate her sympathy.
“Yes.”
“Too bad you couldn’t find David.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “It is. Tell me about him.”
Sadie drank tea and talked about her brother while Walter listened for clues about his son, Harry. David Levine died more than thirty-five years ago. He lived in New York City. Sadie Fagan moved to Atlanta when David was only seventeen. In truth, Walter knew, there wasn’t much she could accurately remember about him. Although she spoke about David Levine, Walter heard more about Harry. She revealed more about herself and her nephew than about her brother. Her memory of David was colored by time and distance. What she had to say about Harry, on the other hand, was current. Perhaps, he thought, she spoke with him earlier today, or yesterday, or maybe the day before.
“Tell me more about Harry, if you will.”
Walter’s cell phone rang in the middle of Sadie’s monologue. She was telling him about Harry as a youngster and how he loved living in Roswell. “He always wanted to be home,” she said. “Right here.” The ringer was on vibrate and Walter felt it buzzing against his chest in his shirt pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Sadie. “I’ll take this outside.”
“No need for that,” she said. “I’ll be in the other room. Holler when you want me.” With that pronouncement, she took her teacup, the Atlanta newspaper, and walked off. Walter flipped open the cover of his phone, pushed the call button and said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Walter-may I call you Walter?-You and I need to talk.”
“Who is this?” Walter asked, then quickly added, in his usual, neighborly tone, “You can call me whatever you like.”
“Good.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Louis Devereaux. I’ve admired your work for many years. It’s a treat just to talk to you. I guess you might say I’m a fan.”
“What is it I can do for you, Mr. Devereaux?”
“I think we can help each other, Walter. We need to talk about Harry Levine. I’d love to join you later today, perhaps even for dinner. I can be there, in Atlanta, this afternoon. Do you know Il Localino in Inman Park? A small restaurant. It’s on Highland in a very quiet street. Meet me there at seven. We’ll have an early dinner and it’ll give us plenty of time to chat. How does that sound?” Walter had no idea who Louis Devereaux was. But he knew Walter’s cell phone number, was familiar with his work, knew he was in Atlanta and used Harry Levine’s name. Impressive stuff, he thought.
“See you at seven, Louis,” he said, then snapped his phone shut and put it back in his shirt pocket.
Harry’s aunt was outside, sitting at a wrought-iron, glass-top table on a concrete slab in the backyard. Walter brought his cold drink with him, sat down next to her and for an hour or more listened to Sadie Fagan talk about her nephew.
The gentrification of North Highland, in Inman Park, on Atlanta’s east side, began in the 1990s. The old apartment buildings, four and five stories tall, the ones with the Depression-era, pre-WWII facades, were renovated, turned into condos and sold to lawyers, IT professionals, advertising executives and salespeople. Most of the new apartments, mainly condos, were too small for big families. That kept the neighborhood relatively free of children. The city built jogging paths and lined local streets with bicycle lanes. Housing prices doubled, then doubled again. So did property taxes. Still, they came. The old residents, working-class people who bought their clothing and kitchen appliances at the same store-Sears-were forced out. Developers descended like locusts. Bars, coffeehouses and restaurants followed close behind. The yuppies and buppies of Atlanta, the ones who wore two-hundred-dollar tank tops from Hugo Boss and drank their coffee from espresso machines imported from Milan, flocked to the neighborhood. The men proudly displayed their Rolexes and always carried business cards no matter how they were dressed. The women wore underwear from Victoria’s Secret so that if they got hit by a car, they’d look good. At The Emory Clinic, an outreach of Emory University’s hospital and medical school, Inman Park was often called Herpesville. An MBA offered no protection from an STD.
Il Localino was one of four restaurants on the same, tree-lined block of North Highland. They shared a common valet parking lot. Walter pulled his car up to the entrance. The attendant, a young, clean-cut, college kid,
